Queen of Winter, Throned
by Faith Accompli
Summary: Just a short, _sweet_ piece set in Draco's seventh year and Ginny's sixth. (complete)
1. Chapter 1

**Queen of Winter, Throned.**  
by Faith Accompli.

Not my usual pace, I know. It just happened. As some stories do.

* * *

It wasn't her idea. 

Not to begin with, no. She hadn't _wanted_ to do it. She had cried. She had screamed. She had sobbed her heart out on the cool stone floor, and he had crushed it with one casual word, with a simple look. 

But then--then she had become reconciled to the idea. He had picked up the pieces for her, mended them for her, twisted and warped them until she was a mere echo of her former self. No one had any idea, of course. She was a consummate actress, she had to be with the family _she_ had. 

She was more than she had been, his presence in her life had changed her. His lessons, the words he had whispered in her mind, his phantom touch, all had made her something more than she once was. His aspirations, his plans and hopes and dreams had fallen to her, she had...after time, she had accepted that her lot in life was to blur with his and emerge stronger, to finish what he started. He had lost out, fallen at the hands of the greatest menace to her society, and it was her task to end it. 

She was close to the enemy, so very close. Her earliest years of school had seen to that, and she knew him as well as she knew herself, knew his weaknesses. Knew his inner thoughts. 

"Draco," she murmured under her breath as he walked towards her. She knew he was there, despite his silent footsteps, despite that the door had made no sound when he opened and closed it. 

He closed the distance between them quickly, not coming close enough to touch her, but enough to stand at her side, one hand resting on the stone parapet as he gazed down on Hogwarts. It was winter, Christmas, and the school entire was remaining for Dumbledore's celebratory Yule Ball. It was the perfect time for her/their plans to go into effect, she could gain control and no one would be the wiser for it until the very last minute, until it was too late. Really, this was the last year she could do it, and now everything was in place. She had the support she desired, she had the time to indulge herself in the tiny flair of showmanship that _he_ would have wanted. 

It was strange, really. Poor little Ginny, no one would ever suspect poor little Ginny, she was so _stupid_. Used over and over again by both the dark side and the light, Voldemort's head, Potter's bed, no adult ever thought that _she_ might care to choose her own side. 

"Are you sure?" Draco's words fell as light as the snow drifting to land on the stone beneath their feet. He was more naive than she had expected. Sheltered. He wasn't as deep in the mess as she would have thought, his parents were careful to keep him out of the game until he left Dumbledore's tutelage. "Is tonight the night?" 

She turned to face him, her head tilted up ever so slightly, not enough to let him believe she looked up to him for any reason save that of his height being greater than her own, even in the heels she wore that gave her another four inches easily. "Why wouldn't it be?" 

He sunk to one knee deferentially, bowing his head a moment. "My apologies. I wouldn't question..." 

"No. You wouldn't," she gestured peremptorily for him to rise, allowing him to kiss her hand as he did so. She pulled the white lace wrap more snugly about herself, glancing down at her robes to ensure that they weren't out of place by even the most minute fraction. White, as white as her skin, the only colour to her that of her hair like dark fire and her eyes a dark blue that she'd not been born with, the only external mark of her first tainting. She tucked one hand into his offered arm--as Draco was unavailable to escort Pansy, the Slytherin girl had made the best of it and invited Padma Patil as her date--and turned to begin the walk down from the Astronomy tower. 

"Queen of Winter," Draco mused softly, his free hand slipping into his pocket to ensure his wand hadn't misplaced itself in the few minutes since he had last checked. 

Ginny inclined her head ever so slightly, ice burning in her veins as she stepped closer to destiny, to the end of _all_ who opposed her will and the will of her departed lord. Now would be the final reckoning, and she would succeed where he had failed once, twice, thrice. Every person who stood on the side of light would be dead before midnight, and she would rule, she would reshape society as her lord had desired. Harry Potter would, of course, be the first to die. "Throned." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Queen of Winter, Throned - chapter two.**  
by Faith Accompli

* * *

All eyes had been on her as she stepped gracefully into the hall, Slytherins and Ravenclaws in anticipation, Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors in _deep_ disappointment that she was on Malfoy's arm. The decorations for this Yule ball, held to celebrate Voldemort's final fall a mere month before, were of a vastly more tasteful theme than they had been the ball three years previous-at least to her mind. 

Everything was black and white and starlight. She could detect the hands of Professors Sinistra and Vector at work this time, in the enchanted ceiling that had been bespelled to display the clear night sky sparkling with perfect stars to illuminate, instead of the grey clouds above the school, in the flawless snowflakes and frost patterns that only a mathematical mind could pull up and work into decorations.

There wasn't a hint of red, not a single holly berry or streak of crimson to mar the pristine wonderland. The floor was laced with an intensely complicated pattern itself, one that she had a hand in devising late after class ensconced in Professor Vector's study as the two of them and Sinistra had discussed more...intricate concepts of Arithmancy, concepts that Vector had mentioned casually as not being on the syllabus any longer owing to dark connotations. Vector had been...not unkind to her. She hoped that the bloodshed wouldn't ruin the professor's work, not when they had put so much planning into it.

Each step she took echoed oddly, as she walked calmly to the centre of the hall, making eye-contact briefly with those who were foremost in her plans, noting with satisfaction that they all broke that contact before she had to, lowering their gaze in assent. They would not fail her, she had chosen them carefully, so very carefully. They had their own motivations for accepting her first advance, but now they were hers. They had all bound themselves to her and to each other with their blood, a tiny scar-little more than a nick-on their palms a far less obvious sign of allegiance than the dark mark, however imposing the latter might look to the uninitiated.

One waltz with Draco, far more graceful than Potter and poor Parvati who tried to imitate their swift and sure movements, and then a pause by the refreshments table to claim herself a pink lemonade, smiling softly to herself as she dismissed Draco that he might have one dance with his fiancée before he was called back to her side, and turned her attention to slipping the school wards aside from herself with a simple bending spell that let her change her lemonade to the champagne that was far more fitting of her status. The snowflake-shaped chip of ice within the glass goblet melted clean away in a shimmer of rose bubbles, and she sipped thoughtfully, regarding the floor with a cold gaze.

Happy couples, so many happy couples, that stirred a spark of bitterness deep within her soul. Her chance at such happiness had been ripped from her before she had even known what she had, but she wasn't one to dwell on it, not her. The past was out of her grasp, but the present-and the future-she could shape with a stroke of her fingertips, she couldn't change what had happened but she could...make amends, such as she could. And she would.

Potter appeared before her with an awkward duck of his head, seeking her acknowledgement. She raised one eyebrow, glancing over him and finding him wanting with his scruffy dark hair and shining green eyes, with his robes of a green that should belong to Slytherins only...there was a resemblance, if she didn't look too close, there was a hint of _his_ essence in the boy...but nowhere near so much as she had herself, nothing like it. He was not enough. "Yes?"

"Er...d'you want to dance?" Potter offered a hand to her, expecting her to agree. She had sent Malfoy away to dance with Pansy, of _course_ she wanted to dance with him. Malfoy had only been to get his attention, she was still infatuated with the Gryffindor that stood before her eyes, at least in the mind of those who thought themselves closest to her.

She bit her lip in a visible display of uncertainty, faked-of course it was faked, _everything_ she did now, every facet she let the outside world see was faked, the distorted image of herself that they were comfortable with instead of the icy heart of the diamond that she was. "I..."

Salvation arrived but a second later, Padma sliding a hand into hers and gazing innocently at Potter through dark lashes. "I'm sorry, Harry, but Ginny's dance card is full for at _least_ the next half hour," the Ravenclaw smiled sweetly, leading Ginny away as the redhead dropped her glass into Potter's outstretched hand. "Perhaps later."

She danced with Padma, the music speeding up at a glance from her toward the band-Vicious Thorn, such a pretty name-allowing them the chance to dance faster and faster, Padma spinning her away when the song segued into a slower number, into the arms of Terry Boot. Another of her co-conspirators, the boy handled her with exquisite care before she whirled into the arms of another of her people, last-minute adjustments to her plans being approved with mere glances and nigh-imperceptible nods, minute head-shakings, all with not a word exchanged that couldn't be seen as anything but perfectly innocent, even by any stretch of the imagination.

Everything fell into place perfectly as the night raced by on winged heels, carrying her with it. Like spider webs unravelling themselves, the chances of her enemies surviving faded out. She could see it, she could see it all. Threads were spinning in her mind, coiling around and around her like ribbons to caress her flesh, and she was dancing slowly with Draco, leaning into him and letting him guide her as she marshalled her strength. All her reserves, all the magic she had wound away in safekeeping over the years, it was all hers, all for _this moment_. "Now," she whispered without opening her eyes, trusting him to lead her where she had to be.

The clock struck midnight, and she turned from his embrace. _Exactly_ where she wanted to be, before the dais, shaking her hair back as her magic rippled around her. Dumbledore, red-clad, had opened his mouth to speak but paused in shock as she clasped her hands before her, her wand between them. "Professor Dumbledore, if I might say a few words?"

Her tone had been firm, magic echoing in her voice, making it impossible for them to deny her. He could only nod slowly, a look of impending doom replacing the usual twinkle in those old blue eyes.

She half-turned to watch both students and teachers, her peripheral vision easily picking out those on her side from their posture, from the way they watched her. _Everyone_ watched her, as they only should, ice and fire resplendent in the world of snow and darkness that the hall had become. Draco stood just to her left, behind her, so still he could be an ice-sculpture of angelic perfection. An angel ready to burn and kill, should any dare raise their hand to her, he was one of her most _loyal_ subjects. Her guard, her guide, the one who cleared her way-

"Most of you are aware that I...had a brief entanglement with Tom Riddle in my first year. He saw through to the heart of me. He wanted me, he found me...of use. It probably comes as no surprise to _some_ of you that his effect on me has been...long-lasting." She paced restlessly, undivided audience to each side, Draco perfectly still yet. So thoughtful, he was. Just what she needed. "I'm sure that you also know Tom Riddle...the heir of Slytherin, Lord Voldemort...his work was unfinished. Some of you are pleased about it. Some of you are not. And so despite this little descent into the dramatic, there's only one thing that still needs to be said."

She smiled widely, softly malicious smiles mirroring hers on the faces of _her_ people, and she turned to glare a moment at Dumbledore, who had worked up the resolve to get to his feet, to speak a word, maybe two, in the time she had elaborated on her history. He was _not_ to speak, he was _not_ to interrupt. It was horribly, horribly rude, and the one who had made his mark on her soul deserved respect even though he no longer remained in this world.

"He didn't get the chance to finish his work," another casual ripple of her magic, as her formal robes fluttered in a breeze not felt on the mortal plane, and as her wand shimmered-blurred-was absorbed into her very skin as pure magic, "I'm finishing it."

Dumbledore sat heavily, a look of absolute despair on his face-oh, it must be _harsh_ for him. Voldemort was finally defeated, and yet there was still evil in the school. Worse than evil, innocence corrupted, garbed in pure white. Potter was trying to fight her now, when Dumbledore's resolve had failed. He struggled on valiantly, making it one step, then two. Ever the brave Gryffindor, soldiering on against insurmountable odds.

She raised her hands, one to the teachers, one to the students, as she stood within the whirling maelstrom of her own magic. Ice and fire, such a beautiful contrast, all within her and without, magic not her own that she could draw up from the very earth, the water, and the howling winds outside-it was all connected, and as she stood with her feet placed just so on the design, on the conduit she had planned and Vector had drawn in frost for her, she could take it all if she wanted. She could even destroy the world, although she wouldn't. Just a _little_ piece of it...

"Avada Kedavra."

Her words were soft, perfectly-pronounced. Her tone was icy, immutable, promising of the certain death that came merely a heartbeat later, blinding white stabbing out from her palms, striking the first two to fall. It was the unmistakable signal for her followers, her people to take what was rightfully theirs. Death danced this night, as they killed, as Gryffindor and Hufflepuff blood stained the frosted perfection that was the hall, tracing elegant lines and bringing a second of vitality to the glacial splendour.

Dumbledore's reign was over, and hers had just begun.

* * *

Other Notes; Ta, reviewers. And I applaud those of you who got it right, or at least knew that this wasn't D/G. Wendy, Alchemine, poof, take a bow. I thank you for your lovely comments. Oh, yeah - Sam? Y'such a fucking clown. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Queen of Winter, Throned - chapter third and last**  
by Faith Accompli

* * *

Lines had divided the students and the staff the moment she murdered Dumbledore and Potter. They had no sooner fallen than sides were taken, her side; Slytherins, Ravenclaws, a few Hufflepuffs who were-above all else-_loyal_, and the wrong side; everyone else. Bloody battle was drawn. 

Not everyone of hers was capable of the killing curse and improvised with painful and messy hexes, _no one_ on the wrong side knew enough to perform the curse. They mouthed the words, and fell beneath the wands of their more enlightened schoolmates. She did not sully her hands further, clasping them behind her back as she surveyed the field, she had made the first strike and it was her duty now to watch, to see those of her side who acted without hesitation, who had proven themselves most worthy. Her eyes were drawn from one scene to the next, little spots of vibrant colour on the frosted and bloodied floor.

One Slytherin boy was physically attacked by a Gryffindor girl, but to no avail, as Crabbe and Goyle - who had given up acting as Malfoy's enforcers and begun to think for themselves, in a slow and trollish way - grabbed the girl off him by the scruff of her neck, slamming the girl into the buffet table and decapitating her with a silver cheese-tray. She couldn't remember quite whom the girl was, some little fifth-year, completely unworthy of her notice despite the child's bravery.

The Slytherin boy-Malcolm-fell back as Vincent and Gregory had, their places in the ranks filled efficiently by the diminutive forms of sixth-year Prudence Nott and seventh-year Susan Bones, the latter punching Hermione in the jaw as the Gryffindor tried to cast a body-bind hex on the Hufflepuff.

Granger stumbled, fell on her rear as others on the side of 'good' fell in a more...final fashion, and looked up in shock. At Draco where he stood between Ginny and the general melee, at the dead bodies of both her friend and her headmaster, at Susan, the most evil of evil Hufflepuffs. Betrayal came in many shapes and forms, it seemed so much less of a surprise from Ginny - she had been tainted already, evil had taken root in her soul, but from a _Hufflepuff?_ "But-but-you're good...how _can_ y-"

_"Crucio,"_ irritation, years building, was easily audible in the Hufflepuff girl's voice, although she recognised it and made her best attempt to force it away. "What? We're not bumbling idiots. We simply work hard and keep our heads down," Susan smirked at the aghast and agonised Hermione, one of the few remaining Gryffindors yet breathing, before she gestured at those of her fellows who had seen the more intelligent path and opted to follow it, follow Ginny. "We might be slow, but we're not _stupid."_

She could stop Susan's little outburst with a single word, if she so desired. It was hardly conductive to a swift take-over, although it didn't truly impair her plans. How tight a leash did she need, however? Was it best to allow her witches and wizards their moment of revenge for slights real or imagined, or would the wiser course be to make them stay their hand?

No. She would let them have their fun.

Parvati had joined her side the moment the Gryffindor realised what was happening, taking Lavender's arm and physically dragging her over to bide behind the Indian girl's twin, temporarily out of the cursing range and behind the lines until the enough of Ginny's people could recognise them and know they weren't to be killed. Padma had the right to use her discretion, had her sister's life in her hands for one brief moment, and didn't hesitate. Both Gryffindors had offered her their wands, and Padma had taken them as surety that they would not be in this fight, taken their wands and sent them to the wall, where temporarily-disabled Slytherins, Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs were being administered to by hopeful future mediwitch Laura Madley.

She could have intervened, but she had nothing against either Parvati or Lavender, they had grown out of the vapid laughter stage in their later years at school, and were tolerable, if dull, people. Besides, saving one's family, if one loved said family, was surely one of the perks of being a major player in a coup of this magnitude.

She had pardoned a few that she genuinely cared for herself, after all. Colin - a friend of hers, despite his Muggle heritage, the boy's little brother and _his_ Halfblood girlfriend, that trio had been cut out of the crowd to bide safely guarded by a pair of Ravenclaws just before she had signalled the night's end. She had advised a pair of seventh-year Gryffindors, girls that had been kind to her in her first year, girls that had helped her study without acting superior in the slightest, not to attend the ball. They had taken her advice to heart and slipped down to Hogsmeade to spend the night at the pub, safe and away.

To her other side, teachers were dead, dying, or clever enough to have joined her side and were thus still amongst the living. Professor Sinistra, Selene, who had written destiny in the stars for this night, had murdered Lupin with no more than a thought and a stab of silvered light. Vector-Victoria, she had said Ginny could call her-had dealt to the half-giant that her brother had thought so much of, stabbing him in the eye with her wand and casting a particularly nasty curse that Ginny was quite sure she'd not had the opportunity to learn yet. She would have to ask Victoria at a later time just what made the back of Hagrid's head explode so spectacularly in a shower of-not blood, bone, and brain matter, but butterflies.

Severus side-stepped the curse McGonagall flung, fire-red and deadly, killing the older wizard in a heartbeat but not before Flitwick had the time to return it with a stunning spell of impressive magnitude and leaving McGonagall completely vulnerable, unable to even attempt a dodge of the killing curse Severus used.

The last, the very last man standing on the other side was, oddly enough, her brother. Ron, poor Ron, tried to reach her-tried _very_ hard, looked intent on pushing Draco aside with brute force as his wand had been broken in the battle and he didn't have the foresight to take another from one of his many fallen housemates. If Ron had captured the queen he might win this day, might force her people to stand down at threat to her life, if he would have killed her-but it came to naught, as all good must, in the end. Draco killed him without a thought, protecting _her_.

There was a pause, a velvety silence, as her chosen ones looked around them in mingled amazement and pleasure. They had done it, _everyone_ in the hall who had opposed them was dead, and they controlled the school. The Ministry wasn't the heart of the magical side of the United Kingdom, _this school_ was. This was where loyalties were made first and foremost, this was the heart of it, the blood of the magical world was its young, those who entered this hall as a young boy or girl and emerged a true witch or wizard, and she held it.

"Bleed them," she gestured imperiously at the dead, her nose wrinkling ever so slightly as she realised the stench of death was rank now, rank within the hall. "Bleed them out and then we burn them. Last thing we want is a pack of _Gryffindor_ ghosts."

Those that followed her looked around for something sufficiently sharp to accomplish the task she set, futilely, she knew-there were no knives in this hall, not one, but that would not hinder her plans. She would provide.

"_Now,_" the pitch of her voice, the magic beneath the word, shattered the diamond-shaped windowpanes, glass tinkling down the walls to catch the light and sparkle prettily, as prettily as death personified.

Her chosen plucked shimmers of glass from the floor, moving to their task with the grace of the grim reaper, dragging the still-warm bodies to the centre of the floor and slashing dead throats and wrists. Blood flowed like wine, seeping into the patterns of power that Victoria had taken care to frost the floor with, spiralling round and round but not melting the ice in the slightest, only filling the gaps with beautiful scarlet contrast that froze over when the circles were complete.

"Back," Draco nodded to the walls, sensing Ginny's need before she could verbalise it, and moving to clear the floor. "Everyone back, at least ten paces." He gazed at her a moment, then amended his orders, "Fifteen."

They did, and she turned her back to the stage knowing that it was empty, the teachers on her side having moved to stand on the floor with their students, and Tyler Nott having already gathered four fellow Slytherins and, between them, dragged the bodies of the fallen teachers into the centre of the room. She raised her hands, success and magic running through her veins, feeling the emotional currents in the air and pulling magic from the earth, and she conjured _witchfire,_ blinding white like snow-glare, consuming those that had opposed her, consuming those that had not been wise enough to join her side. Their spirits were bound into the floor and burned clear in a fire of pure magic that eradicated every last trace of them in this world, sending them on to the next plane, and they would not trouble her again.

Her thoughts turned momentarily to a fragment of history that rested in her memories, either those her own or his, and inspiration struck. "The virgin queen," she murmured softly as she translocated the high table away with a wave of her hand, studying her court with an introspective air.

Although she wore virginal white, she was not pure, could not be pure after Tom's touch, and she had ruthlessly used her body and mind to garner the power and information she required to gain her current status, her power, but now...that was over. She would never again be forced to lower herself, never need to play humble and thankful for the touch she did not want, because she-_she_ was the final authority, she was ice, and they would not challenge her to a game she could not win.

Draco was at her side in a heartbeat, one arm proffered gallantly with none of the pretension usually found in such a gesture. She laid one hand delicately over his wrist, accepted his guidance up the ice-hued stair, and claimed the seat Dumbledore had vacated just a handful of minutes earlier.

Now they watched her, every Slytherin, every Ravenclaw fourth year and above, a handful of third years who had proficiency enough with the Unforgivables that their inclusion in this party seemed a beneficial idea, the Hufflepuffs who had joined her side and the Gryffindors she had spared, their eyes were on her.

Third year Ravenclaws and Slytherins had been deputised to subdue the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that were too young to attend the ball, by now that would have been completed to her satisfaction-or she would have heard all about it. They would wait until morning, she, all those with her, had so much to do before dawn; a strategic run of assassinations, eliminating the current government before they were even aware of the new power-structure. So many people to kill in order to consolidate her reign, it was almost _annoying_ that they couldn't conveniently gather in one place for her chosen to massacre. Needs must, however. His legacy would live.

She let both hands fall to the wooden armrests of her chair, let magic seep through her palms. Effect, it was all for effect, and yet it wasn't nearly so hard to affect the world around her as conventional logic dictated. Conventional logic held that a wand was necessary for any 'proper' magic, as the magic that was in a witch or wizard's blood needed a focus, the average mind inadequate to the channelling of raw power.

Unconventional logic dictated that any person, any mind focused and strong enough, could do away with wands and be their magic. Absorbing her own wand-yew, yew for him, and dragon heartstring that had always been hers-had given her a rush, a hit of almost-pure magic, and although she would probably pay when it wore off, that time was not now.

_Her_ mind was focused, physical desires subsumed to those of the mind, making her stronger than any around her. She had lost all that she ever truly _wanted, _this was what she had left, this had made of her the person she was today. Ice spread out from beneath her fingers without so much as a word, without a full-fledged thought, intuitive and pure, ice lacing and layering in pristine perfection over her chair, changing it to mirror her, a throne of ice, a throne of diamond. Her magic, her _power_ rippled through the hall.

Memories were rich here, she could see shades of scenes unrolling before her touch like history, highlights of events that belonged to the past, either emotional or magical or both.

A boy that so reminded her of Tom that it hurt, arguing with a blond boy much younger than she, both Slytherins, their shades marked with rich emotion that she could almost taste, almost feel, that marked them forever in these hallowed halls.

A pitched battle between yellow and blue. Girls and boys both in old-fashioned robes, the curses and hexes flung marking their own entry in the annals of time.

A girl not older than her, on her knees and begging, in a cut of robes dating her yet further back, only to be turned away by someone with the authority of a teacher, dragged to her feet by Muggles-the girl went bravely when there was no further option, shaking her hair back and composing her expression, her chin tilting up as she brushed aside Muggle hands and became recognisable-the Grey Lady, but as a scared young woman-child.

Murder, an Englishman and a Moor, locked in death's embrace-former teachers, she guessed or knew.

Faster and faster the images swam before her eyes, overlaying that which she had wrought this night, until-burning out, fading, they cleared for the final act.

Salazar Slytherin looking nothing like his statue, his expression wrathful and himself shadowed by a dark-haired contemporary, stalked into the hall through the heavy doors, crossing the distance in mere seconds, his robes swishing noiselessly as he spun in place before her, just before her on the dais, pulling a sword free from where he carried it on his back, sinking to his knees as he drove that sword through the stone. The brunette lowered herself beside him, one hand over his where the sword had been, the other pressed lightly to her stomach. They kissed hurriedly, obviously pressed for time in contrast to the longing writ in their movements, in the lingering touch he brushed her cheek with before he rose, and he left her. He left her where she knelt, her eyes-startlingly dark blue eyes, _Tom's_ eyes-filling with tears after a heartbeat's pause. She faded slowly, faded out, and there was no more.

"I claim," she whispered, one hand held out, her palm turned up . "I claim that which came before, in the name of the fallen heir."

The stone before her began to melt, and, like magic -as magic-Salazar's sword rose, hilt settling in her hand easily, the weight of it almost surprising her. Her other hand came up gracefully to support it, flat of the blade resting on her fingertips. It lacked the ornamentation of Gryffindor's prized weapon, silver hilt almost devoid of decoration save for a hint of scaling etched into the metal and two tiny emeralds as eyes, the serpent. Two runes, one on either side of the blade, she saw as she turned it slowly. Ambition before and cunning behind, a sword that was as free of magic as the most mundane object could be, even though it had remained the sword in the stone for a thousand years. This was no toy, and no weapon for show, it was beautiful, lethal simplicity. Flawless.

All eyes were on her as she studied the sword, watching, waiting to see what she would do.

"Draco," she said clearly, and he stepped forward, kneeling before her as Salazar had, his head bowed. He looked up at her next words, grey eyes shining. "My white knight. Will you serve me forever?"

Every ruler needed someone they could trust, someone to be their right hand, their protector, the one who watched over them in their sleep.

"Forever, my queen." His expression was solemn as she gave over the sword to his keeping, as he accepted, aware of exactly what he gave his word to. He was no longer boy but man, the blood shed in their coup washing away any last vestiges of innocence the youngest Malfoy possessed.

A baptism of blood, the same could be said of all who yet stood. They had taken no prisoners, all were either dead or on her side, those few spared swift to swear allegiance. Every man and woman there was either proven loyal to her or willing to become so. It was-not a bad night's work.

Had Tom lived, had she survived his rebirth, she would have knelt in Draco's place and Tom would have sat in hers, he had promised her that.

He hadn't lived. She had to rely on her own judgement, had to choose the inner circle of her court, and trust that he would have approved.

"Draco," she indicated to the seat on her right. It had been McGonagall's once, but no longer. Thirteen seats. Thirteen, including her. Four times three and one to rule over, four elements, three made a coven, and one was queen or king.

"Pansy. Victoria. Severus. Selene. Terry. Blaise. Padma. Xiomara. Emeryth. Tyler. Susan."

They reigned. _She_ reigned, and she would have it all. She would take it in _his_ name.

This world was not that which she wanted, it was shattered, fragmented, its slightest touch could make her bleed, but it was all she held in her hands, clasped tightly to her for _him._ This world was as broken as she was, without him, but she still existed, still breathed. There were those that she was responsible for, and although in time she would die, her work was not yet done. That time would not be now, and it would not be soon.

On her honour.

In his name.

* * *

Thank you, reviewers. grin Much appreciated, all your contrasting views and all.  
And, disclaimery stuff! Yes, I can put it at the end if I want to, I swear.  
Places belong to Rowling.  
Many characters mentioned belong to Rowling in name, if not in personality - because let's face it, how many of her characters are anything more than a couple of stereotypes pasted together, canonically?  
Other characters may be recognisable as belonging to/from: TWIB, by McTabs, English History, by a bunch of old dead people, Any of my stories, by me... 

Ah, whatever. You get the idea.


End file.
